


Bad Company

by Gamebird



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M, S1 AU set after Homecoming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6266644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamebird/pseuds/Gamebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a Season One alternate universe, canon until after the end of Homecoming, October 10, 2006. After Sylar's failed attack on Claire in Odessa, the Company brings in both Peter Petrelli and Sylar for incarceration, testing, and a little depravity on the side. In this AU, the Company has no connection to the Petrellis and Noah Bennet is entirely evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fresh Meat

The man who had been calling himself Sylar woke up blearily on the cold, stony floor he had been thrown onto, the sound of a metal door slamming echoing in his ears. He had a weird metallic taste in his mouth in addition to the tang of his own blood. He jerked upright, blinking his eyes open as quickly as possible. The room spun badly and he listed to one side, catching himself. The scuff of a chair caught his attention and he looked up at the other occupant of his cell. And it did indeed appear to be a cell, perhaps even an underground bunker. A single glance gave him plain grey concrete walls for three sides, with the fourth wall featuring a large glass window into an equally austere concrete hallway, next to the security door he'd already heard closing behind those who had dragged him here. Getting his bearings, he rose.

His cell mate was outfitted as he was in a thin, white cotton t-shirt and drawstring pants. No socks, he noticed, which was the first thing that pinged in his mind that they were on a similar footing, so to speak. This was not his captor. The second thing he noticed was the copious amounts of blood matted around the man's ear and in his dark hair. He was pale and looked like warmed over death, not dissimilar to how Sylar felt. The man had started to rise when Sylar had sat up too quickly and almost fell, but now he had settled back down and was trying very hard to keep an eye on Sylar while pretending to ignore him. The guy looked vaguely familiar.

Sylar gave him a more thorough once-over. He was white-ish, in his 20s, sitting in one of two metal chairs next to a small wooden table. He had his elbows up on the table, resting his forehead against his raised, joined hands, fingers interlaced. It made his face hard to see. He was sitting with his feet just a little drawn up, so they weren't on the chilly concrete floor. Blood was caked along the top and side of one foot. Sylar's mind finally placed him – this was the guy he'd thrown off the stadium and landed on before he'd fled into the woods.

He narrowed his eyes at the man briefly, then hobbled over to look out the viewport of their little jail cell. He was stiff, sore, and felt fragile, both physically and emotionally. The landing had been rough, as he recalled, but the details eluded him about what had happened after he'd limped his way from the scene of the crime. Outside the glass, there was no visible jailer, but he could see a camera set into the wall with a tiny red light under it to indicate it was working. There was nothing else to see of interest, so he turned back to the man. "Didn't I kill you?"

The man shot him a look from over his hands that let Sylar know he was just as unhappy to be in here as Sylar. "Didn't take," he said with a slight sneer, before directing his eyes elsewhere.

Sylar tilted his head. "You're like I am." That earned him another second-long glance, to which Sylar elaborated, "Special."

The other man blew a little air from his nose and said nothing.

That was annoying. _Enough of being polite_. Sylar twisted his wrist, flexed his fingers and tried to reach out with his ability to seize the man and fling him against the far wall. Nothing happened. He raised his hand and looked at it as though it were the source of the malfunction. "My powers - they're gone!"

 _That_ got the other man's attention, who regarded him for several seconds this time before saying, "I don't have them."

It was a ridiculous statement and Sylar snorted at it. "Of course you don't. Only I can do that."

The other man shrugged slightly with such nonchalance that Sylar immediately realized the man thought it _was_ possible. Sylar's brows pulled together and he reexamined him. Whoever this was, he definitely had a power. Sylar had crushed him hard when they came off the stadium, sure he had broken every major bone in the man's body, yet here he was looking ... well, he didn't look healthy, but despite the blood and the pallor, he didn't look like anything was broken. Sylar considered the lingering chemical taste in his mouth and the odd ringing in his ears. It seemed likely there was a drug obstructing his abilities. Given the violent nature of their previous interaction, he had to hope it was having the same effect on the other.

He stared out the viewport for another long minute, wondering who was on the other end of that camera and what conditions would bring them running. He reexamined the room: two flimsy mattress pads resting on shelves that were fixed to the walls (they made the single bed in his old apartment look lavish), the chairs and table already claimed by the other resident, a porcelain sink, and a hole in the floor that he supposed was to be used as a toilet - no toilet paper. The other man watched his circuit discreetly and silently. Sylar ended on the other side of the table, gripping the back of the other chair. It was heavy enough to be used against the window, but the glass looked very thick and it might not be glass even. No reason to tip his hand quite yet. He pulled the chair out and sat down, putting his elbows on the table and matching the other man's position. They stared at each other from across the table.

"My name is Sylar," he said in a challenging tone.

"Peter," the other said, clipped and simple.

"No last name?"

A tiny shrug with one shoulder, and a glance over his still-entwined hands. "You didn't give one."

The corners of Sylar's mouth curled up. He liked the guy. He had chutzpah. "What are you in for?"

"Littering." Peter put his hands down and leaned back in the chair. Sylar admired how painless the motion appeared for him. Peter went on, "I dropped some trash off the top of the stadium."

Sylar blinked, instantly reconsidering 'liking' this person. "We're in here alone," Sylar said, low and quiet. "Just the two of us. Play nice."

"Or what? There will only be one of us? I've seen how you move. You're busted up inside." Peter looked unimpressed. "You went to that place to kill a … a teenager. What is she, fifteen? Fourteen? She's just a sad little kid, Sylar, and you hunted her down!"

"She has an ability she doesn't deserve," Sylar growled. He got to his feet, considering his options. Clearly, the cell wasn't big enough for both of them and Peter still harbored a grudge about the high school scene. The best line of attack looked to be whipping out the chair and bashing Peter with it. The other man was sitting. It would be nearly impossible for him to respond quickly enough to save his life.

"And what makes-" Peter cut himself off. In the distance, a metal door banged. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Peter stared out the viewport from where he sat, having straightened himself and lifted his chin to look. Sylar waited. There was no reason to turn – he could hear them coming well enough. He counted five people, all heavy. Four wore thick, rubber-soled work boots or heavy shoes. Another was in dress shoes – leather-soled. Sylar turned in a leisurely manner when they arrived. As he'd expected – four grunts and one manager. None were familiar.

Peter was still sitting when the door opened and the first pair walked in. Apparently he saw the same warning signs Sylar did in their body language, because Peter got out of the chair faster than Sylar would have thought he could, saying, "Whoa!"

It didn't matter. The two grabbed Peter one on either arm. Roughly, he was dragged and jerked to the other side of the room where he was pressed against the wall and pinned there. Peter complained during this and resisted half-heartedly. Sylar watched dispassionately, quietly pleased that his cell mate was taking the brunt of it, while feeling a small pang of disappointment that he didn't get to try to dash the disrespectful lout's brains out with the chair. One of the other guards pulled out a syringe and prepped it. Sylar looked from her to Peter, wondering what she was going to inject the guy with, and why. Then he realized he'd been wrong about things, distracted by the assault on Peter. He'd stood there as an amused spectator, but now they were leaving one burly grunt to keep Peter against the wall while the other three turned on the more unruly subject – Sylar. The manager, in his charcoal grey suit and horn-rimmed glasses, stood in the doorway out, watching with an infuriating smirk on his face.

The two men came at Sylar fast enough that he had no chance to get the chair out. There was no escape, so he swung his fist hard at the closer one, tagging him solidly on the cheek. The man ran into him anyway. They both went down in a tangle. Sylar lashed out, kicking, but one of the men had his arm and the other was starting to recover from the blow to his face and grab at him more purposefully.

Then there was a pause, because on the other side of the room, Peter had begun to fight. He was yelling, too: "Stop it! What are you doing to him? Let him go! This is illegal! I'll sue you!"

For a second it looked like the noisy young man might shake off the bigger guard holding him. The manager stepped in, grabbed the back of Peter's head, and bounced Peter's face off the wall. The other three guards resumed their efforts with Sylar, ignoring Peter's protesting noises and yelp of pain. Sylar fought, but was no good. They got him down, one man sprawled on his chest holding an arm, while another laid over his legs. The woman slid the needle into his thigh. Whatever she gave him burned like acid. Unable to fight back, he used what air he had to howl in pain. The needle went away. Both men went to scramble off of him. Sylar grabbed one by the collar. His swing never connected though. He was kicked solidly in the gut by the woman with the needle, who stomped on his side then kicked his ass when Sylar curled defensively and rolled to the fetal position. They didn't stick around, though. A few seconds later, they were gone. Sylar raised his head after the door clanged shut. He could hear them leaving, but the room was too quiet. They'd taken Peter with them.


	2. Cell Blocked

Sylar was lying flat out on his thin, shabby mattress when he heard the door down the hallway once more. This time there were … fewer of them. He tried to make out the sounds, but all he was sure of was the manager and someone with bare feet. He assumed that was Peter. He'd had most of an hour to consider the man's unexpected and improbable attempt to come to his defense. It made no sense. There no love lost between them, after all. Why not stand by and chortle at the prospect of them shooting Sylar up with who-knows-what? It's what Sylar had been doing, after all, but once Peter saw them going after Sylar, he'd raised a ruckus.

The visitors came into view. Sylar sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and ignoring the stab of pain from his side and back. It was indeed Peter, along with the manager as Sylar had expected, and a third individual whom he hadn't. Tall, lean, dark-skinned, and poised, this was the one whom Sylar had hardly heard coming down the hall. He was stealthy on Sylar's own level – impressive. The manager shoved Peter in the room, zip ties holding the man's wrists together. Peter looked spooked in addition to having a goose-egg on his forehead. The door banged shut behind him. The quiet man left. The one with horn-rimmed glasses stayed. He reached up and switched off the camera, then stood watching them with his hands clasped in front of himself. He smiled in a very disconcerting manner.

Sylar gave him a very long stare, finally turning to look over at Peter, who was breathing hard and sweating, having moved to sit on his bed on the other side of the room. He looked like he was panicking, frantically fumbling at the zip ties, trying to bite them off. Sylar could smell the man's perspiration from across the room. Having caught a whiff, he took a deeper breath. Then another, because he couldn't stop himself. His heart lurched and sped up. Every shred of his attention focused on Peter. He was staring like the man had become an ability incarnate, or the key to power. Sylar stood, paying no attention when the manager at the window chuckled.

Peter froze, looking up from his latest attempt to chew through the plastic. Sylar took one slow step after another towards him. How had he not seen it before? Peter was beautiful. He was perfect. He was everything Sylar wanted to take, to have, to own, to possess. Sylar's mind was fogged with obsession, with a hunger very similar to the one he'd already given in to so many times. Peter's hands were still bound, but that only made him even more attractive. The hands dropped slowly, stopping halfway down and palms outward as though to shield himself.

"You're like an offering," Sylar said, smiling like it was his birthday and Peter had been delivered gift-wrapped for his pleasure. He reached for Peter's shoulder.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Peter knocked the hand away.

"That's not how it's going to go," Sylar said, snarling at the rejection. "You're in here with me! I'm Sylar! I can take what I want!" He grabbed at Peter, violent and quick, getting a handful of hair. Peter went down on his back on the narrow bed, kicking up and catching Sylar in the upper thigh and hip. Even bare-footed, it still hurt. Sylar wrenched on Peter's hair, yanking him sideways. Sylar climbed on the bed to get around the smaller man's flailing legs. He caught a knee in the side, in the same place he'd been stomped earlier. It sent a lance of pain through him, doubling him over for a few seconds. Peter cowered from him and twisted his head to break Sylar's grip on his hair. In serious pain now, Sylar took the opportunity to punch, momentarily stunning Peter. Sylar kissed him immediately, taking up Peter's hair again with one hand and grasping his crotch with the other. The flimsy pants meant he got everything in one generous handful. He kneaded and pulled, biting Peter's lip in unrestrained passion as Sylar humped against the man's thigh. Nothing else mattered but this carnality. He _had_ to have it.

But then Peter was fighting him again. That was getting old fast. Peter shoved him off and tried to knee him in the side once more. He missed. With all the shoving, kicking, and rolling, he did manage to knock Sylar off the bed. Sylar grabbed Peter's legs and yanked him bodily to the floor with him. "Fine!" Sylar snapped. "I'll fuck you here!" Peter twisted and rolled. Sylar climbed on top of him. They banged up against the table. The smell of Peter was thick in the air. Sylar was positively drunk on it. "Let me- … Stop fighting!" He shoved Peter's pants down around his knees, then struggled with his own. He had to break the drawstring to free himself, engorged and erect, ready to go. For a second, when Peter threw his still-shackled hands over Sylar's head to rest around his neck, Sylar thought Peter was finally into it. Then the vicious little asshole took the knee he'd torn free from his clothes and slammed it into Sylar's midsection – and not just once, but four times, rolling them sideways and continuing until Sylar shoved his way free and vomited on the floor, realizing a moment later that he should have thrown up on Peter, who was scrambling away now.

Sylar panted, sick to his overly bruised stomach and trembling with need. He picked up one leg of the pants Peter had left behind, and then like a complete sicko, put it to his face to inhale the scent he couldn't get enough of. Curled on the floor next to his own emesis, he jerked off to release. Only then did his head clear.


	3. Cell Mates

Sylar spent the rest of the evening (dinner was served – neither of them touched it) and the night huddled on his bed, trying to die of shame. It wasn't that he didn't know what had happened – Peter had some kind of fucked up sex power that he'd used or been triggered into using (the latter seemed more likely as there was no sane reason why Peter would have caused this horrifying debacle on purpose), and Sylar had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. That was the embarrassing part. Sylar was supposed to know abilities, recognize them, be able to pick them apart on the fly. He understood them better than their original owners. But now, and probably due to the damned shot they'd given him, he was no better than a rube. It meant that all of his specialness was due to his ability and not an inherent trait. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

With the dinner, their jailers had brought one set of new pants. Unlike the food, the clothing was something Peter had been willing to take from their keepers. He had used his old ones to clean up Sylar's mess, mounding the filthy fabric on top of the food tray and letting the guards take it away along with the chewed-through remains of the zip ties. Sylar wondered how long the bespectacled manager had stood there and watched earlier, while Peter and he had gone at it. By the time Sylar had gathered himself enough to look, the man was gone and the light under the camera back on. The two prisoners each washed up in the tiny sink and then used the facilities in turn, but there was no interaction – not even a traded word.

When breakfast came the next morning, Peter brought one of the trays across the room and set it a few feet from Sylar's bed. Then he retreated to his own bed with the other tray. It was a meaningful gesture – the unnecessary ferrying of the tray from the door to Sylar's bedside. It meant Sylar went to the trouble of getting his bruised and battered body upright. He needed the nourishment and … he didn't want to show disdain for what looked like a peaceful overture from the person who had all the reason in the world to kill him in his restless sleep. Whatever shot they were giving Sylar wasn't doing his metabolism any favors. He wasn't hungry, but he ate mechanically. He knew he should say or do something to reciprocate, but he felt empty and awkward, as weak and powerless as he'd ever been as Gabriel. Instead, he laid down and faced the wall, not stirring when Peter came over to move the tray near the door. Such a polite captive, Sylar thought about Peter putting the trays where the guards could easily access them. The man made no sense.

It wasn't long after the breakfast trays had been taken away that another crowd came down the hallway. Pain or not, Sylar was up in a moment, as was Peter. They'd both heard and were both on alert, adrenaline flowing. The numbers were different, Sylar saw as they filed past the viewport. Now there was a woman in casual wear with the four beefy guards and the one manager. The dark-skinned quiet guy trailed behind. Sylar almost missed noticing him, distracted by Peter whispering, "No!" as soon as he saw the group. All of them filed into the room. Peter increased in volume and began protesting immediately: "No! No, this is messed up. Don't do this! Don't do it! Not again!"

Two guards wrestled him to the wall. The other two squared off with Sylar. He wondered which one had the syringe, or if that was even part of the deal this time. Like before, the attack didn't come until they had Peter pinned. One guard and the woman in casual wear stayed with him. The other three took Sylar. Sylar fought dirty and desperate. He bloodied a nose, got his thumb in an eye although he didn't get it out of the socket, and racked one of the guards (a female one, so it didn't do as much good, but she still didn't appreciate it).The manager with his stupid glasses injected him anyway. Then the group headed off, leaving only the manager behind, watching them through the viewport.

Sylar snarled and raged, grabbing a chair and smashing it against the too-thick plasticine glass in his impotent fury. The manager smiled pleasantly at him, turning to reach up and click off the camera. Sylar felt his stomach drop. At that moment, Peter's hands slid over his shoulders from behind. They weren't violent. They turned him away from the gloating manager whom Sylar was certain had an erection behind those clasped hands. Peter's eyes looked glazed. He was trying to pull Sylar's face to his, lips pursed for a kiss. Sylar froze, barely breathing. Before, it had been transmitted by scent. But he had to breathe. He couldn't not. Peter brought him around, hands fisting in the fabric at Sylar's shoulders, lips working his. Tentatively, Sylar inhaled.

There seemed to be nothing unusual at all in the air. Peter certainly didn't smell good. Neither of them had had access to anything more hygienic than using cupped hands to wash at the sink. But there was nothing mystical and brain-fogging about the scent. Peter cupped the back of Sylar's head. He chewed at Sylar's lip. He pressed his hips and erection against Sylar's front. Sylar shot the manager a look of pure, seething hatred, which the man obviously found amusing. After that, Sylar ignored him. He knew what was going on now. He guided Peter to the nearer bed, which happened to be Sylar's. Peter moaned, murmuring affirmations ("Yeah", "Yes", "Come on", and "Yeah" a few more times).

"She got to you, didn't she?" Sylar asked conversationally as Peter pushed him down and shoved his shirt up. Sylar tried to tug it down, but Peter grabbed it from him and shoved it back up forcefully. He glanced at Sylar with momentarily bared teeth. "I see," Sylar said, letting the shirt stay where Peter put it. "She used her ability on you while you were pinned against the wall." Sylar petted the side of Peter's head. It had the somewhat desired result – Peter stopped looking antagonistic, but instead he buried his face in Sylar's belly, licking and chewing, tickling and kissing. Sylar didn't fight when his pants were taken off, the broken drawstring making it a foregone conclusion, but at least they stayed otherwise intact. "That's what it all meant – you telling me you could take abilities, then you telling her not to do it. You took her ability somehow before, without hurting her." Sylar marveled at that, still stroking Peter's hair and watching him cannily.

Peter moved his mouth to Sylar's flaccid prick. The sensation was more than he could bear, more perverse than anything else about the situation. Sylar covered himself. Peter bit his hand – hard enough to bruise, but not cut the skin. Sylar didn't budge. He looked down his body at the other man, thinking things through. Their roles had been reversed – clearly Peter was as blinded by lust as Sylar had been the evening previous. Sylar could fight – his own example was clear that a victim need not sate their desires directly on their target. He could throw Peter off, beat his ass, and that would be that. Assuming, of course, he won. In his current condition, that seemed unlikely. The same mental haze that made Peter single-minded about sexing him would mean Peter would show no mercy in raping him as violently as necessary, and he was in much better physical condition than Sylar was. Sylar's realization about how Peter's ability might work gave him a stake in keeping the other man relatively undamaged. As well, he didn't see a percentage in risking what was left of his own precarious health. These starkly practical considerations was what it came down to – his faint virtue hardly entered into the calculation.

Sylar came to a decision. "Fuck me," he commanded. Peter hesitated as though confused by the idea. Sylar raised and splayed his knees, still keeping his other hand firmly over himself. "Fuck me, Peter."

That was enough of an invitation. Peter came up to kiss him, passionately and deep, one hand exploring the crack of Sylar's ass. Sylar turned his head to expectorate as much as possible, reaching down to smear himself. Interestingly, Peter had enough presence of mind to do the same thing, but then again, apparently foreplay was a part of Peter's repertoire even in altered states. A moment later, he felt Peter press against him. It was a completely foreign sensation – a body pressed to his in such an odd posture, and the pressure in such a sensitive, vulnerable area as his anus. Sylar swallowed and tried to relax, to dissociate, to let it happen. This was something he had rather more practice at than he wanted. It was like letting the Hunger take over and drag him under.

Peter pressed into him with short thrusts that became jerking slams far too fast for Sylar's body to adjust. It hurt and it ached in an immediate way that shattered his distance. The pain, the forced intimacy, the physical intrusion, made Sylar present in a way the Hunger had never demanded. He grimaced and held Peter's arms where the other man was bracing himself as he speared into Sylar. His fingers dug into Peter's forearms. The only grace was how quickly it was over. Peter shoved into him as hard as possible, penis throbbing and body surging. His breath stuttered. Sylar breathed in careful, even measures. He was too aware of irrelevant details. Looking past Peter's side, he could see the manager jerking off inside his pants, the asshole's eyes consuming the scene in front of him. Sylar felt more profoundly violated by that monster's attention than any of Peter's penetration.

He knew Peter had his own mind back when the man gasped, whimpered, and recoiled off the bed with more violence than he'd shown during the seduction.

"No!" Sylar snapped, anger welling up inside him, at what had happened, at the casual way the manager was turning the camera back on and strolling away now that he'd finished. Sylar grabbed Peter's arm and yanked him back.

Peter landed on top of him, instantly going to a stiff-armed push-up position to minimize their touching. "I'm so sorry," Peter said, voice trembling. "I am so, so sorry."

"Come here," Sylar growled, pulling Peter down on top and beside him. The ledge creaked under their combined weight. Sylar ignored it. He got up to pull on his pants and drop his shirt over himself. Peter mimicked the actions with his own clothing, which he'd never fully removed anyway. Sylar got back on the tiny bed. The only way they could both be on it was to embrace, which Sylar did just as angrily and sharply as he'd stopped Peter from fleeing.

Peter hugged him back. Sylar's anger faded. In its wake, he found himself shaking. Maybe crying. He didn't know. He didn't want to know. He tried to tell himself none of this had happened to him. None of it at all. Then he derided himself for being too weak to handle reality. His breathing hitched until he focused all his attention on evening it out. It was then that he noticed Peter was stroking his back, murmuring reassuring palliatives, primarily that, 'it was okay.' It so thoroughly was not okay that Sylar suffered next through a brief bout of hysterical laughter. But it passed and he found himself grateful that someone was making the effort to comfort him. It was exactly what he needed. There was so much that had happened to him that he didn't know how to deal with.

"You make no sense at all," he said, speaking against Peter's shoulder.

"Do I have to?" Peter was still petting him soothingly. It was nice.

Sylar couldn't tell if the man was asking sincerely or was joking. The answer was the same either way. He snorted softly. "No."


	4. Good Behavior

They laid together until evening, neither suggesting they part. For Sylar it was novel and bizarre, but so, so soothing. Anytime he moved, he was caressed. Peter asked for nothing for the attention, contact, or kind touches he bestowed on Sylar. Sylar did not think this was how anyone would have responded to the situation – he'd murdered Peter days before and attempted to rape him yesterday. He didn't expect any mercy because of the abilities involved. He wondered if such forgiveness was unique to this man – a power that drugs and captivity couldn't strip away. It made him entertain foolish thoughts about soulmates and bonding and try to remember what the psychological term was for forming strong attachment under circumstances of extreme stress. There had to be one, he thought. It was a common enough phenomenon, documented repeatedly among soldiers and disaster survivors. Knowing that it was normal and natural made him sad to think this affection would end as soon as they were free. He'd lived his whole life in one or another form of oppressive captivity, though. He wouldn't stay in it, not even for the way he felt towards this other man now.

When dinner came, they finally disentangled. Sylar called out to the guard who had pushed the trays through the slot at the bottom of the door, "Hey. Tell your boss who likes to watch that we'll give him a show tomorrow." There was silence, not even footsteps away. The woman was listening. "Have him send me some lube." The woman snorted. Sylar let the flap shut. He brought the trays to the table, which they pulled over to Peter's bed so Peter could use it as a chair. Sylar sat in the remaining chair.

"A show?" Peter asked.

Sylar shrugged. He adjusted his chair so his back was to the viewport. "That camera out there? You've seen it?" Peter nodded. "He turned it off each time we did it. He doesn't want others to see what we're doing. And he gets off to it."

Peter nodded slowly, glancing past Sylar, over his shoulder, probably at the camera. He put his hand up to one side of his mouth, casually holding the roll that was part of the meal. "He'll be alone. No backup. Okay. But he'll be out there and we'll be in here."

Sylar tilted his head. "People will do all sorts of unwise things when they're hungry for something. We'll just have to see what happens." Peter grimaced. Sylar added, "I don't like going in blind, either. But our options are limited."

Peter glanced past him at the floor under the window, where the remains of the smashed chair still lay. "We could fight."

"And we may yet," Sylar answered, finishing off his shallow bowl of mystery stew. He regarded his plastic spoon for a moment, but decided it was inferior as a potential weapon compared to the pieces of the chair.

The guard took the trays away. No lubricant was provided. Peter leaned against the viewport and waited until the far door clanged shut. There were other inmates in similar cells, but the sounds from them were muffled at best. They knew of them mainly due to hearing the guard make stops along the way to delivering or removing the food trays. The lights clicked off a few minutes later, just like they had the night before. Sylar finished washing his hands as Peter turned and went to his bed. A moment later, Sylar turned at the sound of Peter's mattress hitting the floor. "Peter?" There were a few footsteps before the sound repeated. Both mattresses were on the floor now.

"Come to bed," Peter said quietly, his voice now coming from closer to the ground.

Sylar took two short steps until he found the edge, then knelt. Peter had put the two thin mattresses abutting one another. "Together?" Sylar said uncertainly.

"Yes."

"How do you know I'm into this?" Sylar said with amusement. He arranged himself anyway, deeply pleased to have human contact offered the entire night through. It made him feel safe, even though he knew logically that was both irrelevant and inaccurate.

"They haven't been giving me injections."

Sylar mulled that over. "And?"

He heard Peter pull in a deep breath. "I know how you feel."

"You mean that literally." Sylar was silent, thinking about that. The day made more sense, except for one thing. "But why do you care?"

Peter's fingers found his forearm. "Because that's what makes me human."

All of the killings Sylar had perpetrated, all the blood on his hands, came back to him suddenly. He was into the double digits now and it had barely been six months. He didn't deserve this touch, this kindness, or this care. He pulled away. "I'm a monster, Peter."

"I _know_ you're _not_." There was such certainty in Peter's voice that Sylar stopped. He even moved back until he felt the tips of Peter's fingers stir the hairs on his arm.

"You said it yourself, Peter. I hunted down a fifteen year old girl."

"I think we've both had a thorough demonstration of how these abilities can drive us to do things we wouldn't normally."

"Such as give me a second chance?"

Peter's hand wrapped around his forearm, pulling it back to where it had started. "I'm giving you a second chance, yeah. But it only counts if you give yourself one as well."

 _'Some blood doesn't wash away'_ was on the tip of his tongue to say, but it seemed … rude to say that to someone who was insisting it did. And … Sylar would be lying to himself if he pretended he didn't want it to be true, that he wanted to turn his back on what he'd done and figure out another way. He didn't want to work at the bank or the newspaper or the pharmacy or whatever place his mother thought he should be other than at the shop, surrounded by his ticking beauties. He missed it – the shop. It had been his life, his routine, since high school. It was familiar and safe. It wasn't normal or boring. Even if he barely made enough to cover the bills, he'd enjoyed it. It was the one thing he got from his family that had felt right.

He shut his eyes. He felt miserable. He felt sick. He didn't know how to go back to being that person he'd been before Chandra came into his life and changed everything with his promises and betrayal. He'd wanted to be special, and he was (he knew that), but here he was in a prison cell being forced to do unspeakable acts for the titillation of his jailer. Peter's hand rubbed his forearm, then Peter scooted forward and looped his arm around Sylar's shoulders. Sylar felt tears in his eyes for the second time today. He let them fall unheeded. A warm arm held him. Peter's nose brushed his forehead. They slept.


	5. Jail Break

Morning came too soon. Sylar's sense of the passage of time was skewed. The drugs in his system made him sluggish. Getting up came slow, even if it only involved getting himself over to the sink so he could wash his mouth out and scrub at his face. Peter had done so already and was waiting impatiently at the slot for their breakfast to arrive. He brought it back and sat cross-legged on the mattress. Sylar joined him. "Breakfast in bed? How romantic."

Peter chuckled, chowing down on his biscuit.

"What's your full name?" Sylar asked, balancing his tray across his knees.

"Peter Petrelli. Yours?"

That one word stopped Sylar cold. He struggled with the answer, saying haltingly, "I grew up as Gabriel Gray."

"Is that your name now?"

"No. My real name is … Sylar."

Peter's gaze flicked back and forth between Sylar's eyes. Then he blinked once and said, "Okay."

A chuckle escaped Sylar's lips at the relief he felt in that unexpected, unasked for validation.

"Funny?" Peter inquired.

Sylar shook his head. "No one's ever taken me at my word like that before. Just … let me … say who I am."

Peter looked around the cell. "Who you are … is all you've got."

Sylar shook his head again. "I don't even know if that's the name I want. What if I want to change it?"

Peter shrugged. "People change their names all the time. Not a big deal. Tell me the new one and I'll use it."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," Peter agreed.

"So, I can become," Sylar swallowed, "not a killer, and that's all it takes?"

"Well, it kind of takes not killing people anymore, but if that's what you mean by 'not a killer', then yeah." Peter cocked his head. "More people, I guess. Is that what you mean – changing your future?"

Sylar gave a short nod and studied his food, mumbling, "Yes. That's what I meant. The future." He saw Peter nod in his peripheral vision. They finished their food in comfortable silence. After the trays had been taken away, Sylar asked, "What does your ability do, exactly?"

Peter was watching out the viewport again, gazing down the hall at what little he could see of it. "For a while, I thought it let me fly. I kept having these dreams where I could do all these cool things. Then I met Isaac and I could do what he did, so I thought maybe it only worked when I was with the person who had the ability. Then …" Peter shook his head. "When they took me to meet Shanice – that's the woman with the lust ability – the guy with the glasses said I would get her ability just by being around her. Then they put me back in here and I couldn't stop it. I couldn't turn it off. When she came in the cell, I told her I wouldn't do it again, that I had control now. She said it didn't matter, because her ability let her use it on others and not just herself."

"So you get the ability of the last person you were around?"

"No, I have them all the time. I just … can't figure out how to use them." Peter scoffed. "And what good is flying or painting going to be in here anyway?"

In a low, dangerous voice, Sylar said, "You were around me."

The door at the end of the hall opened. Peter jerked away from the glass, turning to Sylar. "What can you do? Can I do any of it now?" He looked at his hands frantically, then at Sylar, obviously wanting answers.

Sylar hesitated. If he explained his ability to Peter, would Peter get all of the ones Sylar had gained, or only the one Chandra Suresh had awakened in him – the one that came with the Hunger? Peter had already said he had difficulty controlling it. The footsteps were getting steadily louder. "There's too much to explain."

"No!" Peter took his wrists in desperation. "Sylar, tell me! I can get us out!"

Sylar had only seconds to decide which of the two fates worse than death he would consign Peter to – one where Peter was overwhelmed by greed for power, his mind numbed and fogged like cotton and ice, or the one where Peter was powerless before his enemies, who knew no bounds in violating him. It was an impossible choice. Even though he knew which one he would make for himself, it was monstrous enough that he couldn't make it for anyone he felt fondly towards. He shook his head. "It's too dangerous."

"What? No!"

The group arrived – four guards, the manager, and Mr. 'Quiet and Creepy'. With a faint electronic beep from their door, it opened and they were inside. Sylar's eyes went to Mr. Glasses, who said, "Let's split up this love nest."

For a second, Sylar hoped he only meant pushing them to opposite sides of the room like usual. Both he and Peter cooperated that far. Sylar didn't even fight the injection this time, hoping against hope and yet dreading he was wrong, and that the words meant they were going to be separated more permanently. When the syringe was empty, they dragged him outside. He knew it was over then. He didn't even answer as Peter yelled after him, "How do I do it, Sylar? What do I do?"

It was over. Sylar knew it. A tiny chapter in his life, a twisted, stupid chapter where he'd thought for a few hours that someone got him, trusted him, might even like him. God, he'd been so stupid. He'd even begun to wonder if this was what love felt like. If the sound was any indication, Peter was fighting them as Sylar was hustled down the hall. At the very end, Mr. Glasses stopped in front of two unmarked doors. He borrowed keys and handcuffs from one of the guards, cuffing Sylar's hands behind his back. The manager jerked his chin at the two guards with them. "I can take him from here. Go back and make sure Petrelli knows his limits." The guards nodded and jogged back.

Sylar watched them go. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Mr. Glasses watching them, too. "You're not taking me where they think you're taking me, are you?"

The manager smirked at him, using his key card to open the door to their right. He jerked Sylar through it, flipping on the light as he did. It was some kind of staging or examination room. There was what looked like a shower on one end with medical equipment and a gurney on the other end. He shoved Sylar in front of him and then kicked him in the back of the knee to knock him to the floor. Sylar tottered, only avoiding face-planting onto the concrete floor through sheer willpower. All of the injuries he'd sustained from the previous few days came screaming back to remind him of how ill-suited he was to a fight, even assuming he got his hands free somehow. On his knees now, Sylar glanced around. There were no weapons easily available.

Mr. Glasses grabbed his hair, yanking his head back to get his attention. Sylar hissed at the pain. The man loomed over him and said, "No, we're just about done with you. You see, that girl who you were trying to kill? That's my daughter. And there is no way I am letting scum like you … survive … after making an attempt on her life." The man leaned over, snarling in Sylar's face. "I will see you tortured in every way possible before your miserable life leaves your corpse for good. The only choice you have is whether I make it quick, or long. Which do you want?"

It was another stupid, impossible choice. Sylar considered spitting on him, but he would wait for a better opportunity. At the moment, his mouth was dry with unacknowledged fear. "Get it over with," he growled.

Mr. Glasses straightened, smiling – no, leering – at him. He started to open his belt buckle. "Suck me."

Sylar's eyes widened, looking at the growing bulge in the man's slacks. When and if to bite ran through his mind. But before he had to make that choice, the doorknob rattled. Glasses-man rolled his eyes with a snarl at being interrupted at so critical a moment. Teeth clenched, he strode to the door and yanked it open, clearly about to give whoever was there a dressing-down. Peter's hand shot in, grabbed the man's forehead, and the manager collapsed to the floor.

Sylar stared, gape-mouthed. "You came back for me?"

"Yeah." Peter said it like there was no other reasonable course of action. He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

Sylar shook off his wonder and surprise, and got to his feet. "Keys," he said, turning to show his bound hands. "Left front pants pocket."

Peter nodded and reached into the manager's pocket, fishing out a wallet which he tossed aside, then found the keys. He released Sylar, then went over and used the cuffs on the man on the floor. Sylar picked up the wallet, glancing through it.

"Noah Bennet," he said, a certain satisfaction in his voice for finally having a name to put to his tormentor.

Peter nodded, looking down at the man. A strange expression passed over his face. "Come on," he said. "Help me with him."

Sylar didn't ask questions. He just tucked the wallet under his arm and helped Peter get the other man into the hallway, where they dragged him back more than half the length of it to their original cell. Sylar glanced around at the mayhem. All four of the guards littered the floor of the cell, apparently dropped in their tracks. "Is this … my ability?" There was no blood or signs of trauma.

"No." Peter gestured at the tall black man half-sprawled, half-propped against the far side of the hallway. "His." They put Noah next to one of the shelves bolted to the wall that normally held the sleeping pad. Peter reshackled the man so the cuffs were linked through one of the supports. He stood up and explained, "I was trying to use anything I had, but nothing was working. It was like there was something coming from him stopping me. I could sense it. As soon as I could, I knew it was a power. So I used it. Apparently he can't block his own stuff."

"You gained his ability – to neutralize abilities?"

Peter nodded. "It's … more like a vitality drain. I kind of overdid it. But they aren't dead."

Sylar took a closer look at the nearer pair of unconscious guards. They were indeed still breathing.

Peter turned to Noah, who was waking up. "I didn't use as much juice with this guy." The manager rattled the cuffs against the metal frame, realizing his situation.

Peter leaned in, holding up one finger. "Remember this? You had Shanice do this to me." The handcuffed man stared at the finger, then around the room at all the people lying on the floor. He looked back at Peter with an alarmed expression. "Get out of the room, Sylar," Peter warned. He reached out and touched Noah on the forehead, managing to do it despite the other man struggling to avoid him. Peter retreated out of the cell, slamming the door behind him. He turned to the black man on the floor in the hallway and put his hand over the man's eyes.

"What are you doing?" Sylar asked when there was no visible effect. He'd left as directed and stood next to the viewport where he could see into the room.

"Making sure he stays asleep longer than the rest of them. I want the others to wake up … at least a half hour before he does." Peter stepped next to Sylar in front of the viewport, looking in at Noah Bennet, who stopped trying in vain to search his own pockets for the key. He stared up at them in horror as Peter and Sylar stood together looking in.

The moment crystalized everything in Sylar's mind. It all made sense. Peter really had come back for him. Just for him. He'd sought him out, searching until he found the room where Noah had secreted them away. He hadn't just run away at that point, like he could have. And now, he was taking revenge against the man who had hurt them. Peter hadn't deluded himself, because if he had that much evil in himself, then he could understand the evil in Sylar. Peter's expression was angry and hard, so cold it was frightening. But Sylar still took his chin, turned his face, and kissed him full on the mouth. Sylar kissed him passionately, with every fiber of his being. Peter answered it and Sylar's heart sang.

Peter turned his body to face him without breaking away, one hand moving up to cup Sylar's cheek. Sylar let his hand slide to the back of Peter's head, cradling it. He was acting on instinct. He'd never kissed anyone like this, never more than a chaste peck on his mother's cheek and his bashful, unacted upon desires towards Elle. But this – this was different. It consumed him, took his breath away, made him feel light and powerful and desperate all at the same time. It was more satisfying than gaining abilities ever had been. They drank each other in until the room was spinning for Sylar. He parted, lids heavy, holding Peter's head with one hand and his shoulder with the other, both giving him the balance to stay on his feet.

"Mm," Peter hummed.

Lazily, Sylar turned his head to look inside the room. Noah's face was ashen. "I told you I'd put on a show," Sylar said. "You're trapped in there with four big, strong people who are going to be absolutely infatuated with you when they wake up."

As if on cue, one of the guards began to stir. "Let's get out of here," Peter said. "I don't want to watch." Sylar nodded, reaching up to flick off the camera for consistency's sake. Getting out turned out to be surprisingly simple. Everyone who tried to stop them was put to sleep. They walked right through a busy loading dock and no one even challenged them (though they did earn some looks). Outside, Sylar gave the parking lot a quick scan, then looked to Peter. "You said you could fly."

"I flew once. Twice maybe. Depends on how you count it." He was looking up at the clear morning sky as though thought itself might propel into the firmament.

Sylar slid his arm around Peter's shoulders. "Do you remember what was happening when you did it?" Peter nodded, still looking up. "Do you remember how it started?"

"I was with my brother both times. He can fly." Peter's posture changed slightly. "He can fly," Peter said again. He looped his arm around Sylar's waist. Sylar felt … lighter. Peter went on, "It wasn't me. It was him." Like a mantra, Peter repeated, "He can fly. My brother can fly." They lifted off the ground, spun slowly higher into the sky, and finally shot eastward at great speed. Dallas-Fort Worth and the metroplex's endless suburbs passed underneath them. They swerved north, then south, then dipped much lower than Sylar thought was safe. After some truly terrifying wavering, they landed recklessly, crashing through the branches of tall pine trees and somehow managing not to die in the process. Sylar limped away and promptly heaved. Clearly, Peter needed practice. But as they'd definitely escaped from worse, Sylar wasn't about to complain. He staggered away from his puke and collapsed at the base of a tree. Between the drugs, the strain of the past few days, and the stunt flying, he was played out.

He'd dropped Noah's wallet during the crash landing, but Peter found it. He sat down next to Sylar, looking through it idly and counting the cash in it. "There's not enough in here to do much with and I don't want to use the credit cards. I saw some stores not far from here. I'll go there and call my brother. He can help."

"The one who flies?"

"Yeah. That's the only brother I have. No sisters."

Sylar nodded wearily in response to the information. "What can he do? Aside from fly."

Peter shrugged. "He's an assistant DA in New York. He knows law. He's running for congress right now so he's going to be an asshole about everything, but he's my brother. He'll be there for me." Sylar looked at him, wondering what it was like to have family you could depend on like that. Or, hell, anyone you could depend on like that. Peter tilted his head, regarding Sylar's face. "And by extension, he'll be there for you, too. Because nothing's happening without you." Sylar blinked as Peter headed off, marveling that he just might be able to believe Peter was for real.


	6. On The Outside

Sylar limped into Peter's apartment in New York, somewhat proud of himself for still being able to put one foot in front of the other. It was the small hours of the morning. Between driving and flying (both in a plane and the less conventional sort), they'd finally arrived somewhere marginally safe. Nathan had not been as big an asshole as Peter had suggested, but then again, Sylar's definition of 'asshole' was probably skewed. Peter clicked the lights on, then shut and locked the door behind them. Sylar walked slowly through the small, crowded apartment, looking at all the varied things Peter had gathered to share and define his space. Sylar wished he knew all about each object – where they came from, why Peter found them meaningful, how long he'd had them. He was sure each item had a story to tell. When it came to Peter, he found he wanted to know everything. It was a new sort of hunger, the mundane sort that had previously only applied to timepieces.

He came to the dark blue French doors that led to Peter's bedroom. "That ability she used on you, the one that caused lust?"

Peter took off the shirt one of Nathan's staff had bought him at a Wal-Mart. "Yeah?"

"Does it have any … lingering effects?"

"Uh," Peter's brows rose. "Do you mean, 'am I horny right now?'"

Sylar snorted. He was exhausted, still nauseated from the drugs he'd been injected with only this morning, and he hurt all over. Sex was far from his mind, but he could see how Peter reached that conclusion from the question. "No. I mean … feelings."

"Oh!" Peter got it now. "No. Not that I know of." He nudged off his shoes while Sylar stood and worried over how deeply infatuated he was with this person. The only parallels he knew were the desire he felt to collect a priceless chronograph or a new ability. Was it safe to feel this way about a human being? Would Peter betray him like Elle had? Peter interrupted Sylar's thoughts with a voice that was soft and careful, "Sylar – however you feel right now – if you change your mind, if it doesn't stay – that's okay." He glanced off to the side and swallowed before looking back, his expression pained like he'd had to say this to someone before. "It's alright. I want you to know that. No matter what." Peter gave a hopeless shrug and waved one hand at everything, the other occupied with snagging off one of his socks. "I know … what we've been through has been a mess."

Sylar nodded slowly. He gestured at the bed, changing the subject. "Just the one bed?" He hadn't seen any others in the apartment.

"Yeah." Peter looked at it for a moment, then dipped his head and asked shyly, "Am I making too many assumptions?"

"No," Sylar answered immediately. He rounded the end of the bed and walked over to Peter. He cupped the man's face and kissed him gently, again and again, like he'd always wanted to kiss someone and never had the chance. He hadn't intended to do more than the one, but once he got started, he didn't want to stop. They were lovely kisses, warm and affectionate and kind. They made his heart beat faster, his stomach float, and it felt like his skin was glowing. When they finally parted, Sylar breathed, "What kind of man are you to make me feel like this?"

Peter met his eyes, one and then the other. They were beautiful eyes, very perceptive and quick, brown at a distance, lightening to almost hazel up close. Sylar rubbed his thumb up and down against Peter's arm where he held it loosely. The skin was smooth and delightful to touch. Peter answered, "I hope I'm your kind." Then he smiled. "And right now I'm the dirty kind, who is about to become the clean kind." He kissed Sylar again, only a quick smooch this time, then pulled away to go in the bathroom. He left the door open, so Sylar watched him lose the jeans and step into the shower. He wasn't feeling any pull of lust, but he wanted to be closer to that body that had just moved away from him. He wanted to see those eyes looking at him the way Peter had a few moments ago. He wanted to see the skin at the corner of Peter's eyes crinkle with a smile. After a few moments consideration, Sylar disrobed and followed.

As he had deduced from the invitation of the open bathroom door, Peter was not surprised to be joined. He stopped rinsing his hair and sidled up to Sylar, warm and wet. They kissed. Sylar leaned back against the chilly tile, enjoying the feel of Peter's hand sliding up his thigh and over him. Peter paused to knead him. Sylar sighed against his cheek. All he could think of was how he'd entered the shower to be close, not to be felt up. They had yet to have sexual contact (other than this) that was willing or mutual. While Sylar was not about to dispute that circumstances had broken down all sorts of barriers between them, he still felt an uncertainty about his role in things between them, or what he wanted. And here was Peter, touching him freely in the most intimate of ways, massaging his penis for God's sake, and doing it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. It was too much too soon. But before he could withdraw into his own mind, Peter's hand left off and traveled up Sylar's side. Peter cupped Sylar's ribs as he continued to kiss languidly. Peter's erection disappeared as fast as it had arrived.

The kissing – that was something Sylar liked, even with all that nakedness pressed against him. "That was smooth," Sylar said when they disengaged. There were benefits to dating an empath, he decided, having been spared the awkwardness of refusing, or more likely enduring, what was obviously about to happen. It left them doing only things he was okay with being present for. It left him with affection and connection.

"What?" Peter asked.

"Come here and give me more of what I want," Sylar murmured, and Peter returned to kissing him. Sylar stroked Peter's cheeks and touched along his brows, lipping over every part of his face, pausing to give his eyelids small pecks and to rub the tip of his nose across Peter's lashes. Peter hummed appreciatively, caressed his sides, and kissed back when he was given the opportunity. Although undisputedly masculine, Peter's frame was light, very similar to a shorter version of Sylar. It wasn't threatening or imposing in any of the ways that might have put Sylar off. He nuzzled Peter's temple and then the side of his head. He pulled back with a sniff. "You still have shampoo in your hair."

"Hm? Okay." Peter tousled his sopping hair, stepping back to put his head back under the spray and finish cleaning up. Sylar watched the water and suds running down Peter's body. For the first time in his life, he had a naked, willing human being no more than an arm's length from him, allowing him to view or even touch as he wished. He felt like he'd been initiated into the secret club of successful adults, people who were desired by others, and had relationships and sex lives.

Later, mostly dry and clad in t-shirts and boxers, they climbed in bed. Peter's bed smelt like him – his natural scent mixed in with that of linen and dryer sheets. The mattress was pillowy soft compared to the sleeping pad in the cell. Sylar settled in, adjusting Peter until they were spooning, him holding the smaller man in front of him. "I like this," he said, despite knowing it was unnecessary to tell Peter of his feelings. He liked saying it. He liked hearing the words in the quiet of the apartment.

"So do I," Peter answered.

Sylar considered saying more, but his mind stumbled over the words and he wanted it to be just right when he did say it. He kissed the back of Peter's head instead, relying on Peter's sense of his emotions to know what he meant. Peter squeezed the hand wrapped around him, holding them tight together. They slept.


	7. On The Lam

The distinctive metallic noise of the door being tried rattled Sylar's instincts. He woke, jerking his head towards the front door. It wasn't open yet – Peter had an interior deadbolt, after all, and had used it – but Sylar doubted that would hold anyone out for long. Peter hadn't woken. Sylar didn't wait for the sound to recur. He jostled Peter awake immediately.

"Huh?"

Sylar didn't answer and didn't need to. Both of them heard Noah Bennet's voice on the other side of the door saying, "Knock it down."

It was a measure of how affected they were by what had happened to them in the previous week that neither man needed further confirmation. The blanket was flung back. Peter rushed to the window and threw the sash up. Sylar grabbed the wallet off the nightstand, then leaped to Peter's side. It all happened in the same time it took those outside to batter open the door and pour into the room. Peter was flying the two of them out and away before the invaders had a chance to draw down on them.

Peter flew erratically, as Sylar had had the unfortunate opportunity to learn the day before. After the first few blocks and one near-miss with a building, Peter seemed to settle on a destination. He took their path upwards in a smooth arc that ended with them landing much more gently than the day before, this time on a penthouse rooftop that looked half patio, with a greenhouse on one side, a table with chairs, and a pigeon cote off to the side. Sylar looked around, but he saw no signs of life aside from the birds. "You know this place?"

"Yeah. Owner died a few days ago, a week ago maybe."

"Would they expect you to come here if you were on the run?"

Peter was gazing back in the direction of his apartment, fists balled at his sides. "No. I quit the job a few days before he passed."

Sylar nodded and went to peer in the sliding glass patio doors. The interior was expensively furnished, but most importantly he didn't see anyone. He gestured with his empty hand, trying to summon his ability to open the door. There was a dull feeling in his mind where normally there was razor clarity. Nothing happened.

Peter walked over. "Your ability's still gone?"

"Yes," Sylar grimaced. "I know it was a 24-hour shot because they were giving it to me every 24 hours. It's been longer than that, though." He glanced up at the sun, then down at their shadows, gaging the time be mid-morning and cursing that he couldn't be more exact.

"Drugs don't stop working instantly. It'll taper off all day." Peter reached out to the door and hooked his fingers into the latch. It slid open easily. "Oh!" Peter said in surprise.

Sylar sighed. Now in addition to feeling useless and stymied, he looked stupid. His ego was only slightly salved by Peter seeming as surprised as he was to find the door unlocked.

Peter glanced around. "Well, I guess there really isn't a way for someone to get to the door without being able to fly, so that makes sense. Someone's got to be taking care of the birds." He walked in. "Hello? Simone?"

Sylar followed, glad to be out of the chill of October in New York, still clad in only the t-shirt and boxers they'd gone to bed in. "I thought you said the owner died."

"Yeah. Charles Deveaux. His daughter was taking care of him. Guess she's not here." Peter turned to Sylar. "Those people … are in my _home_. What are we going to do?"

"First, we're going to eat." Guiltless about the situation, Sylar set about breakfast. The refrigerator had been emptied of perishables (and now contained a few partial six-packs of beer, which Sylar ignored), but there was still plenty of canned food in the pantry. "And then," he said, tossing Peter the wallet, "We'll give him the same thing he gave us. He'll learn his lesson eventually." Peter cracked open the wallet, looking through the contents with an expression of confusion. Sylar set crackers, olives, and canned salmon on the table. "His home address is on his license."

"Oh." Peter studied it. "It will be a while before he's there."

"Which is why we'll be stopping back by your place after he clears out of there, then mine in Queens, so we can get dressed properly and lock up after them. We'll still beat him back home by hours, even if we have to wait for them to finish trashing my place the same as they probably are at yours." Peter exhaled heavily at the reminder of what was going on at his place. Shaking his head, he fetched forks and opened the olives.

XXX

"What?" The word was little more than a small, pitiful sound in the back of Sylar's throat. His apartment wasn't trashed, it was empty – not just of people, but of everything. Shelves stood bare, cabinet doors hung open. Even the curtains and rugs were gone. Peter put an arm around his shoulder briefly and gave him a squeeze, then prowled forward on the alert. Recovering himself somewhat, Sylar said bitterly, "They're going to do the same to your place, you know, as soon as they get a moving van over there. Is there anything in there you can't live without?"

Peter shook his head. He'd satisfied himself the place was empty and now gazed on Sylar with sympathy.

Sylar clenched and briefly bared his teeth. He moved to the mirrored closet door. Peter hadn't noticed it was a door. Maybe the others hadn't either. Sylar triggered it open, but the rooms beyond were as void as the apartment. He stood glaring at the empty spot where his map had been, all the names and scraps of information gone. Although, oddly, he found he didn't want the information. But he still resented the theft. Peter explored behind him, his steps stopping with the metallic sound of a light bulb cord being pulled to activate it. A second later, the reason for Peter's lack of motion hit Sylar. He wheeled and in two strides was behind Peter, mouth dry and limbs numb. He hadn't thought anything more could be taken from him – that he couldn't be humiliated further, but he'd been wrong. Peter was looking at the painted, in some spots even etched walls that showed Sylar – or Gabriel, perhaps – in his most desperate and wretched moments.

"I ..." Sylar had no words.

Peter turned to him slowly and offered him a hug. Sylar accepted it, hugging him fiercely and trying to sort his complicated thoughts about betrayal, justice, and second chances. When they parted, Peter told him, "Now let's go stop them from fucking up anyone else."


	8. Drama In The Yard

Outside of the Bennet family home, Sylar stopped Peter from ringing the doorbell. "We just go in," he explained.

"There might be people here," Peter protested.

"School's out. There probably are." Sylar fidgeted in the mid-afternoon sun. His abilities had not come back full force yet, but they were present enough that he could use them with great concentration. At times, he could feel the numbness came with it, the mental fog that had driven him to be a hunter instead of a human being. He just wanted this over so he didn't have to deal with the temptation anymore.

"School? How do you know there are kids here?"

"We just go in," Sylar insisted, reaching past him for the doorknob.

Peter caught his forearm firmly. "Wait. You have been super tense since we landed. What's going on?"

Sylar hissed, pulling back and rolling his eyes. This was such a stupid time to have an argument. They would lose all benefit of surprise. He short-circuited it as best he could by simply blurting out the truth: "The cheerleader – the one I was after – is Bennet's daughter."

"Claire ..." Peter's eyes drifted to the side as he thought that through. "No wonder. That explains why he ..." Peter's brow furrowed and he looked back to Sylar. "No, it doesn't. If he did all that to you because you tried to kill her, then why did he do it to me, too? I tried to save her!"

"You _did_ save her," Sylar pointed out. "And he _still_ did it to you."

Peter shook his head, dismissing the whole mess of unfathomable motivations. "It doesn't matter. We're here for him, not her. We can just wait out here. He should be back soon." He regarded Sylar appraisingly. "Do you have this? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" But he knew what Peter was getting at. He wasn't fine and he was becoming increasingly _not_ fine. "None of these people deserve their abilities," he snapped. "If she's here, then we kill her and move on!"

Peter drew back, brows furrowing. "Sylar? The only reason you found her was because she was using her ability to save people's lives. She's a hero! If anyone 'deserves' their ability it's someone like-" The door opened at that particular moment, reminding Sylar that in addition to being a stupid _time_ for an argument, this was also a very stupid _place_ for one. Claire Bennet looked out at them in puzzlement. Peter ended his sentence: "Her."

Claire's expression shifted to pleasant surprise as she recognized Peter. "You!" Then her eyes tracked to Sylar. She paled. Everything pleasant in her demeanor vanished. "You ..." Her voice was filled with dread now. She took a half step back, looking to Peter. "Why are you with …"

Sylar rolled his eyes again. The front porch remained a stupid time and place for this. "We're moving this inside," he informed Peter, extending his hand and making a gripping motion with his fingers. He concentrated on the standard Darth Vader Force choke. It was both theatrical and effective. Claire's mouth gaped and her hands scrabbled at her throat. Sylar walked forward, propelling her backwards, three feet beyond his fingers and an inch or two off the floor. Peter followed him in and shut the door behind them.

An older, feminine voice called out from the kitchen. "Claire? Who was at the door?"

Sylar dropped Claire to the floor, raising a threatening brow at her as she silently scrambled to her feet. This was the one he'd missed at the Odessa stadium. The hunger itched in his mind. Peter stepped up behind him and said in a low voice, "This wasn't the plan. I don't want to involve these people."

Sylar rolled his eyes. "'Let's wait outside' does not constitute a 'plan'," he answered just as quietly. "They're his family. They're already involved. They live with him. They like him. Some of them even fuck him." He looked at Peter with the intention of determining if this man was becoming a danger or liability. He looked at him and remembered how he'd looked the night before in the shower, how Peter had smiled to see him when he'd come back to take him where the arranged taxi was waiting for them, how Peter had set up Noah for retribution and Sylar had kissed Peter in front of him. This was not his enemy. The fog that was clouding his mind, making his options seem increasingly limited, lifted. He blinked at Peter. Sylar's face relaxed and he took a deep breath.

"I'll back you up," Peter murmured. "No matter what."

"Claire?" The possessor of the voice came out where she could see the entry. She looked between the two strange men standing together, then at her daughter, whose eyes were wide and face pale.

Claire took two quick steps closer to her mother and pointed back at Sylar in agitation. "Him! He's the one who killed Jackie!"

"Jackie?" the woman asked uncertainly. "Jackie fell." She glanced uneasily at Sylar and Peter as they stepped apart, giving them a brief, polite smile before looking back to Claire. "I know how much she meant to you, Claire, but you have to understand it was an accident – a terrible, terrible accident."

"It wasn't an accident!" Claire almost screamed at her mother. "I've been trying to tell you! At the stadium! I was attacked, by _him_ , and he killed Jackie. Don't you remember it? The police? The blood on my cheerleading outfit? _Any_ of it?"

"I-" The woman's mouth opened and then shut. She tried again. "I- I must have had a bad interaction with my medicine. I don't remember much from that night, but I-" She shook her head and gave Sylar and Peter another polite smile. "I'm afraid we skipped the introductions. My name is Sandra. You are?"

"Peter."

Sylar gave Peter a side-eye for being too eager to answer, but decided it was actually rather smart. As a common name, 'Peter' didn't incriminate him and yet it remained well mannered. Unlike, say, 'Sylar'. But he answered anyway, because he wanted the news to get back to Mr. Glasses. "Sylar."

"Lyle," said a younger male voice from inside the kitchen. Peter and Sylar looked in that direction, but whoever it was didn't come out where they could see him.

"He's having a sandwich," Sandra explained.

"Great," Peter said quietly. He looked uncomfortable.

"Is that everyone?" Sylar asked the mother bluntly.

Sandra's eyes narrowed. She didn't answer. Instead, Claire said slowly, "Are you two _working_ together?"

Peter said, "We weren't working together at the stadium, but we are now."

"You have your father to thank for that," Sylar added.

"My father?" Claire said.

Peter moved where he had a better angle on the kitchen. Sandra took a step to the side, keeping herself between him and the voice Sylar presumed belonged to her son. Sylar said, "Yes. Your father and his people abducted the both of us after the adventure at the stadium, your savior here as well as myself," he said with a gesture at Peter. He glanced between Peter and Sandra, but let their minor posturing slide without interfering. He directed his comments to Claire, but everyone could hear him. "We were detained, drugged, and experimented on, then _violated_ for the pleasure of your dear daddy, which is just as lewd and literal as your hormone-drenched teenage mind can no doubt imagine." He was snarling at the end of it, finding a deep satisfaction in calling out Noah Bennet for his crimes, and even more in seeing Claire's horror.

"What is he talking about?" Sandra hissed in outrage.

Claire pulled in a deep breath, then surprised everyone by barking a short, hollow laugh. "Maybe it's true," she said flippantly.

" _What?_ " Her mother's disbelief was thick.

Claire said, "I have no idea what's true or not anymore. No one remembers what really happened at the stadium – how my best friend was murdered right in front of me, how this … Sylar … tried to kill me, too. Lyle doesn't even remember who won the game. Zach hardly knows me now." She rounded on her mother. "Last week I was nearly raped by that stupid quarterback – no, I might have _been_ raped by him, I wouldn't know because I was dead, and I was dead because he threw me down and – Agh!" Claire threw her hands up dramatically. "No one knows! No one remembers! Brody doesn't even remember his name now! And all along, Dad _knew_. He knew about what I could do. He knew about the tapes. He knew about _everything_." She gave an exaggerated shrug and waved at Sylar. "So maybe he did all that, too. How would anyone know? No one knows anything!"

"Claire, you were not dead!" Sandra said with exasperation. "And as for all the rest of that hogwash-"

"I can prove it!" Claire cut in. She looked around the room, then stared at Sylar defiantly. She raised her hand to him, palm facing him. He shifted, eyes narrowed at the unexpected gesture. "Cut me. Just like you did to Jackie's head, but on my hand." When he hesitated, she sneered, "I know you can do it."

He snorted softly at the challenge.

"Claire?" Sandra said.

"Watch," Claire insisted.

Sylar raised his hand, one finger extended. He pointed it at her hand and flicked his finger to one side in a quick motion. Her palm sliced open like a knife had slashed her. She flinched, then spun and showed the gash to her mother, whose eyes widened almost comically. The cut vanished in seconds, though, leaving only a red stain of blood that vanished seconds after that.

"How … that ..." Her mother moved to her, taking her hand and looking perplexed.

A young teen boy stuck his head around the edge of the kitchen, a potato chip in one hand, and asked, "What'd I miss? Is something going on?"

"Go back to your sandwich," his mother said distantly. Reluctantly, Lyle did. She looked at Sylar. "You did that?" She motioned at Claire's hand.

"I can do worse," Sylar rumbled with dark promise.

"We came here for Noah Bennet," Peter interrupted before things went bad.

"He's why you can't remember anything," Claire told her mother.

"He drains memories?" Sylar asked.

Peter shook his head. "No. His friend does that. The one who can make people fall asleep. They literally forget to stay awake."

"I thought you said he drained vitality."

Peter shrugged. "Same thing."

Claire shook her head. "It doesn't matter. He has it done! He's done it to Mom. He's done it to Lyle. I don't know why he hasn't done it to me."

Sylar said, "You have the power of life. Perhaps it's too much vitality to be overcome that way."

"I don't believe any of this," Sandra said. "How…?"

"Would you believe it if you heard it from his own mouth?" Sylar asked.

"Noah's?" Sandra said. Sylar nodded. She said, "I … I guess so."

"He will be home soon, correct?" Sylar looked to Sandra, who hesitated, then nodded. The plastic flap of a doggie door to the back yard opened and a small fuzzball of a dog came through, nails clicking on the tile. Lyle left the kitchen to scoop the animal up, holding the dog protectively while studying the interactions of the people in the living room and foyer. Very slowly, he walked back out of sight into the other room. Sylar continued, "Go join 'Larry' or whoever in the kitchen-"

"Lyle!" the boy interjected, thus telling Sylar exactly where he was, even if he couldn't see him.

Sylar smiled humorlessly and went on, "And let Peter and I confront your husband alone. He'll tell you everything you need to hear."


	9. Shanked

They didn't have long to wait. Sylar heard the car cruise into the driveway to park there even though they owned a garage. He tried not to get distracted with curiosity about why the man of the house parked outside, but he had to think about something as he listened to Noah exit the car, open and shut the back door, walk to the door of the house, and jangle the keys such that Sylar also noted the family must typically lock the front door even while most of them were home. It was an interesting slice of suburban life and much better to think about than how Claire's unclaimed ability was in the kitchen behind him. Oddly, Peter's presence wasn't bothering him. It was as though Peter were simply not a target. Then the front door opened and Noah walked in, interrupting Sylar's internal speculation.

The man stopped a bare step into the room, the door half-closed behind him. Sylar gave it a little nudge with telekinesis so it finished the arc and shut. His abilities still weren't functioning well enough for the motion to be as effortless as it should have been. Noah stared at the two of them for a long moment, then glanced around the rest of the room. There were no signs of violence or the other inhabitants. As far as Noah could tell, they were alone.

"Remember us?" Peter said, stepping forward.

"Of course," Noah said conversationally. He set down the briefcase he'd been carrying. A jacket was slung over his arm, one more suited to the cool fall weather of New York than the Indian summer of Odessa.

"How likely is it that he'd forget the people he kidnapped and had raped while he rubbed a few out watching?" Sylar pretended to talk to Peter, but the ugly taunt was clearly intended for Noah. "But then again, maybe he's done it to so many that we all sort of blur together for him." He turned to Noah. "I want to hear from your lips why you did that to us."

"You're a serial killer, _Gabriel_ ," Noah said. He walked over to the fireplace, posing with it behind him. Sylar scanned over it quickly for threats. The fireplace poker would make a good weapon, but it seemed unlikely that Noah would try to attack them with one. Surely he wasn't that stupid, but if he were carrying a gun or any other weapon, then it was awfully small. Sylar saw no traces of one. Noah went on, "I can do whatever I want to people like you." He spread one arm along the mantel. Sylar glanced at the clock on top of it, looking at it for a few seconds longer than the photographs next to it. There was something not right about Noah's behavior.

"And him?" Sylar waved at Peter. "He saved your daughter's life and yet you abducted him the same as you did me!"

"He was convenient. His memory would have been wiped at the end anyway. Neither one of you are human. Nothing I did matters." There was a sound from the kitchen – the scuff of a shoe on the tile. Noah glanced in that direction, his hand falling to the bottom of the mantel. It hung in mid-air like he couldn't decide what to do with it. "Where's my family?" There was dread in his voice. Delicious as that sound was, Sylar knew the game was up. Both he and Peter turned to watch as Sandra, Claire, and even Lyle, still carrying the dog, came into view.

"Noah?" Sandra's voice was barely a whisper.

At the same time, Claire was saying, "Not human?" in a heart-broken tone.

But those weren't the only things happening. As Sylar swung back to relish Noah's expression, he got to see the man yank a gun out from some hidden compartment built into the mantel. Finally, the odd posturing made sense. Sylar had time to think that before a bullet was fired directly at him. Instinct, fear, and disbelief flooded into him as he reached for his ability and found it still maddenly unstable. There was no way to instantly summon the concentration needed to make it work flawlessly. He tried to block the projectile – he really did – but the thing that made the most difference was Peter shoving him to the side. The lead still ripped through the side of his chest, pain lancing through him with an icy-hot sting. For those first few seconds, he was surprised more than hurt. He looked down, staggering from the shove, trying to figure out if that was a lethal injury or not.

Another bullet tore through the air, hitting him in the shoulder after first passing through Claire's body. She'd thrown herself in front of him to stop the attempted murder – the surprises just weren't stopping. Sylar blinked as she crumpled into Peter's arms. Sandra threw herself forward at Noah with the scream only a mother can make when her child is taken right before her eyes. She seized the gun. Noah yelled at her. They struggled. Sylar narrowed his eyes with concentration. He ignored the blood streaming down his side and the pain that surged stronger with every racing heartbeat. He could compartmentalize the unnecessary physical sensations now that he had a moment to do it. What he focused on, instead, was the twist of his fingers and the flow of his power. In his peripheral vision, he knew Peter was looking up at him from where the other man was crouched over Claire's body. Peter knew what he was doing. The barrel of the gun rotated as Sandra found herself unexpectedly getting the upper hand. A moment later, the trigger was pulled.

It sounded louder, somehow, than the two shots Noah had fired trying to kill Sylar. The man with horned-rimmed glasses staggered back, eyes wide. He fell, clutching at his chest. Sylar's hand tightened into a fist. Peter stood and wrapped his hand around Sylar's. It was red with Claire's blood. "Let him go," Peter whispered.

Sylar exhaled and released his grip. Noah's body jerked and gasped, but he wouldn't make it. "He's dead anyway." Peter glanced back at Noah's form, then to Sylar, and nodded once as though in affirmation of what Sylar had done.

To the surprise of her remaining family, Claire sat up. Lyle, who had taken cover as soon as bullets started flying, saw her first and yelped. The gun clunked to the ground as Sandra dropped it and rushed to her daughter, sobbing hysterically as she embraced her, then released Claire to search for the rapidly-disappearing gunshot wound. The dog barked in agitation, squirming free of Lyle's arms to rush around the room erratically. Lyle stood and walked forward towards his father as though in slow motion, unable to do anything but stare at him as Noah gasped, bled, and twitched with agonal respirations.

Peter looked Sylar over, checking both wounds. He dismissed the shoulder as soon as he saw it, but lingered over the one to the left side of Sylar's chest. "How's your breathing?"

Sylar glanced around, but the Bennet family was fully occupied and accounted for. "My lung has been punctured. How do you think it is?"

Peter snorted softly. "You're such a wonderful patient. We need to get you to an emergency room to get you stabilized."

"One thing," Sylar said, going to one knee next to where Claire sat, holding her mother who was crying and rocking. He met Claire's eyes over Sandra's shoulder. The hunger that had previously itched in his brain made not a stir as he looked at her. "If you need us, or want the company of others who … aren't human, look up Nathan Petrelli in New York. He's running for Senate. He'll be able to find us." He locked eyes with the girl until she nodded in understanding. Then Sylar stood, leaving her to cope with the family tragedy.

No one stopped them as they left.


	10. Freedom

Sylar woke when he tried to roll over, confused by the stab of pain from his shoulder and side, and the feel of something foreign on his face. His instinct to freeze in place served him well. Once he was awake, he remembered the gunshot wounds, the ER, the cross-country evening flight through the air, and settling in to the Petrelli family beach house … with his lover. Morning light was filtering through the windows, illuminating the half-nude man sleeping peacefully next to him. Sylar took off the unnecessary oxygen cannula and carefully shifted onto his side where he could view Peter more comfortably.

Peter's back moved in steady, relaxed breaths. Sylar watched the rise and fall. Clear, smooth skin showed above the sheet, a slight olive tone telling of the Petrelli roots in the Mediterranean. Sylar admired the glossy, dark brown hair that covered Peter's head and fell over half of his beautiful face. Such a lovely face – perfect and imperfect, more attractive to Sylar every time he looked at it. Peter was a nice, handsome, well-heeled Catholic boy. Would his wealth and breeding be enough for Sylar's mother to overlook the gender? The Grays were part Italian, he recalled. In many ways, Peter had more of a shot than Elle would have had … had she been for real.

But Peter was entirely different. Yes, Peter had saved Sylar's life same as Elle had, and they both had abilities, but that was where the similarity ended. Peter had stood by him, stood up for him, supported him, held him, and shared himself without deceit. He'd told Sylar about his family, his powers, and his resources and then offered them all to Sylar without reservation. Peter had judged him for his past when that was all he knew of him, but just as thoroughly he'd retracted that judgment and let Sylar be something different – whatever person Sylar wanted to be. He'd killed in front of Peter and Peter had not a word of blame to say of it. He'd allowed Sylar the decision and hadn't second-guessed him on it. There was none of Elle's manipulation or betrayal anywhere in Peter. Peter was a steadying influence Sylar hadn't even realized he needed.

He still didn't feel the Hunger when he looked at this man. He didn't imagine it was gone for good, but he'd found something that displaced it, drowned it out. It gave him so much hope, that he could be something other than a monster.

Peter shifted and Sylar felt the flutter and lurch of his stomach from anticipation that Peter might wake. He smirked at how exciting it was just to lie here next to him. As though sensing the turn of his thoughts, Peter's eyes opened. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and rolled to his side to face him. Immediately, Sylar reached out to brush stray hair from Peter's face, despite the ache it gave his shoulder.

Peter smiled. "Feeling better? Breathing okay?"

"Yes." He felt like his heart was in his throat as he looked at Peter. Such a surge of lust washed through Sylar, and so strongly, that Peter's brows rose as he obviously noticed. Sylar hadn't even thought he was gay, but he knew what he wanted. And this – love and acceptance and a worthy power every bit as special as his own – this was what he wanted: a companion he could trust, a lover who was generous and understanding, someone who took him at his word. He wanted to fuck Peter's brains out.

Peter licked his lips, then chewed the bottom one as he rose up to sitting. "Do you think," he gestured at Sylar, "if you laid on your back, and I was real gentle …?"

Sylar didn't need to hear the rest. He rolled over, ignoring the pain. He reached down and one-handedly shoved down his briefs. Peter pulled off his own boxers, then helped Sylar with the rest, tossing away the blanket while he was at it. Freed from its confines, Sylar's growing erection waved in the air. Peter grinned and abruptly sucked it into his mouth.

"Ah!" Sylar threw his head back, tingling all over at the sudden sensation – wet and hot and perfect. He'd never had a blow job before, if he didn't count Peter's coerced attempt while in Level 5. At that thought, he pulled the man away. He didn't want the parallel – not yet; it was too soon. Maybe Peter sensed that, or maybe he just had ideas of his own, because he rolled off to the side to dig in the night stand for lube, then climbed on top to straddle Sylar. Sylar's dick rode up the crack of Peter's ass. Peter's balls were warm against Sylar's belly. Sylar reached out and touched gently along Peter's cock, the velvety skin softer than it looked over the rigid flesh.

Peter leaned forward, one hand going to the headboard to steady himself, so he put no weight whatsoever on Sylar's upper body. They kissed. Peter nuzzled him teasingly, almost-kisses that grazed Sylar's nose, lips, cheeks, and forehead. Sylar wrapped his hand around Peter's shaft, giving him a squeeze that Peter responded to by giving him a deep, passionate kiss. Sylar's other hand fumbled for the lube. It was his left. The shoulder hurt at the motion. Peter took the tube from him, returned himself to upright, and opened it. A few moments later, Peter wet Sylar's shaft and his own hole. Then Peter was lowering himself onto Sylar.

It was just as hot and wet as Peter's mouth, but far tighter. Any doubts Sylar might have harbored about his ability to feel desire towards his own gender were utterly wiped out. He wanted this. He wanted Peter. The sight of the man slowly raising and lowering himself on Sylar's dick was almost enough to make him blow all by itself. Sylar was panting now. His chest hurt. He hoped like hell nothing went wrong, because he wanted to keep having sex with this man for the entirety of whatever healing period he had to go through. Peter at least had the benefit of Claire's ability; Sylar would have to do it the old-fashioned way.

Peter finally sunk all the way down on him, his greedy asshole taking all of Sylar inside of it. Sylar spat on the palm of his good hand and started jerking Peter off. This aspect of anatomy he knew. Even if he hadn't, his ability knew what made Peter tick, what turned him on, what made him putty in Sylar's grip (or in this case, more like an iron bar – Peter was hard and nearly there from no more than the little they'd done).

"Oh fuck," Peter said, "this is good. I've … oh …" He moaned, bouncing on top of Sylar, grinding into him. Sylar squeezed, tugged, and then moved his hand rapidly over the glans, up and down. Peter thrust forward into his hand involuntarily, almost coming up off of Sylar's dick. His seed spurted onto Sylar's chest. Peter put his hand over Sylar's good hand, now messy with Peter's come, and twined their fingers together. Sylar twitched the fingers of his other hand with telekinesis, shoving Peter back down on him, fully encased in his body. "Ah!" Peter gasped, giving an ecstatic shudder. Sylar used the ability to move Peter up, down, up again, and then down one last time as he came.

Carefully, very carefully, Peter pulled off and dismounted, yanking over a pillow to prop himself next to Sylar so they could cuddle. Peter was on Sylar's good side, but Sylar waved his hand uneasily, not sure what to do about his situation. His hand was smeared with ejaculate. Peter grabbed up his discarded boxer shorts and wiped him clean, even between the fingers. Sylar sighed and leaned over to brush Peter's hair out of his face while Peter attended to his own hands.

Peter looked up at him. "Are you okay?" The nurse's eyes went to the bandages. Peter had shared about his medical background during their brief but nerve-racking wait in the ER for attention.

"Yes." Sylar's shoulder and chest still hurt, but there was no new pain to indicate he'd torn anything loose. The bandages didn't show any new blood. He sighed again though.

"Is your breathing okay?" Peter looked concerned.

Sylar smiled slowly. "My breathing is fine. I'm just … in love," he said simply.

The look on Peter's face was radiant. He grinned hugely, blushed furiously, and then lifted himself up to bury his face in the crook of Sylar's neck, kissing him there. "I love you, too," he whispered. Sylar knew everything was going to be alright.


End file.
